Lady Jane (21 page)

After a long moment Sarah told her, her eyes closed in shame, “It’s four thousand pounds.”

“Good God,” Jane said simply.

“I know. It is terrible. I hope I will never forget this moment, nor all the humiliation and pain my own stupidity has brought me to. I can only hope,” she added bitterly.

“My dear,” Jane exclaimed, taking her hands, her heart filled with pity for this brilliant, beautiful creature brought so low by her own careless need for excitement. After a time she brought writing materials and persuaded Sarah to write the note to her mother, and sent it off with the coachman with orders to wait and bring Lady Sarah’s box back with him.

“By the way,” Jane said, suddenly remembering, “I sent your own carriage back for you last night. Surely he didn’t allow it to sit all night in front of his house?”

“No, he sent it home. I came here in his carriage.”

“His carriage?”

“Oh, indeed. There is no end to Mr. Leach’s pretensions, or his ambitions,” Sarah said.

Jane felt uncommonly depressed by Sarah’s words, as though a stifling dark blanket had settled over her brain. There seemed something portentous to herself in the words. She stared into the flames, wondering what Leach’s ambitions were regarding herself. Why had he been so insistent upon Sarah’s bringing her there, to the point of being willing to cancel a four thousand pound debt!

Sarah reached out to touch her shoulder, as if to remind Jane of her presence, and Jane forced herself to throw off the dark thoughts and turn to Sarah with a smile.

“Yes, dear, here I am daydreaming and you patiently waiting to be put to bed. Poor darling, you must be exhausted. Well, up you come. Betty Crews has made all ready for you, I’m sure, and will no doubt ring a peal over me for keeping you down here talking for so long.” She took Sarah upstairs and turned her over to the patiently waiting Betty, then wearily made her way to her own room. She felt thoroughly exhausted and threw herself down upon her bed for a moment It seemed a week since morning.

Tomorrow, she thought, I will go first thing to the solicitor’s office and ask him to have the money delivered to Leach with only the spoken message that it is in payment of Lady Sarah’s debt. That way Leach won’t know it’s from me. Then I must come straight back and get the party on the road to Kent. I will send Betty and Crews with Cook and Dorrie on ahead of us, and take Nurse and Clinton with Sarah and myself. The rest of the servants will stay here. Since Aunt Stanier dines here tonight I can tell her of the excursion then.

Oh dear, she remembered with a start, what of Sarah? She will not want to appear, of course, but I cannot pretend she is not here. And having told Aunt Stanier of that, what excuse can I make for Sarah’s presence in my house—in bed!

She worried this problem about in her mind for a while, torn between betraying Sarah’s confidence and being less than truthful with beloved Aunt Stanier. I will tell her, she finally decided, since it also involves me and Leach, and she is the only person I
can
share this fear with. But I will tell Sarah that I am going to do so. Surely she will see that I cannot tell lies to someone so close to me, and she can’t really mind Aunt Stanier knowing.

Oh good heavens! Aunt Stanier’s party! She sat up with a jolt, wondering if Aunt Stanier had already sent out the cards for this affair. She ran downstairs to the back drawing room and hastily scribbled a note to Lady Stanier, asking her, if she had not already done so, not to send out cards for her party yet, and that she would explain all this evening. She rang for Crews and had it taken round to Lady Stanier immediately, then sat back with a sigh. Before it had finished escaping her lips, she sat up again in dismay. She had still to inform the servants of tomorrow’s exodus. Wearily, she pulled herself to her feet and went off to find Betty Crews.

21

With
one exception,
the entire party had been enjoying the removal to Larkwoods. The chilly spring rains of London had given way as they travelled south, to a warm, burgeoning awakening in Kent, with the trees covered already with a pale green fretwork of leaves and the fields dancing with the first wild flowers.

Jane and Sarah, each with a shock to recover from, spent long, healing days in the open air, in the saddle or afoot, roaming the Park without meeting anyone. The local gentry were, of course, aware that Lady Payton and her son were in residence, but since they were unaccustomed in the past to any intercourse with the family, they placed little importance on the event.

The Crewses, Nurse, and Dorrie enjoyed the more relaxed atmosphere of Larkwoods and the heady warmth of the Kent springtime. Even Cook allowed, grudgingly to be sure, that the stove drew better than the one in London.

The one exception was Clinton, who, once the excitement of the journey and the renewing of his acquaintance with forgotten toys had abated, remembered the pony. This happened at the end of the very first day. Nurse came to Jane in some agitation to say that the child had requested an immediate return to London and had refused his dinner upon being informed that it would not be possible to set off at once.

Jane went to him immediately. He explained to her that he needed to ride the pony every day or the pony would be disappointed. Jane said she could understand his feelings, but that poor, dear Lady Sarah was ill and needed a spell in the country to recover.

“Can not her own mama take care of her?” Clinton inquired reasonably.

Jane assured him that unfortunately she could not, but that she knew he would want to do everything possible to help Lady Sarah make a good recovery. He stared at her, his black eyes, so like Sebastian’s, sober and thoughtful. Finally he agreed, though he was clearly unhappy. Jane’s heart ached for him and she was torn between her wish to give him so simple a thing and her pity for Sarah. She offered to have John, the coachman, go out tomorrow in search of another pony. Clinton thanked her politely but declined, saying he didn’t think his pony would want him to ride another.

So the matter remained unsolvable for the next six days. Sarah recovered her spirits proportionally as her bruises faded, and professed that she might never return to London and be perfectly content, so well did she love Kent. The long days out-of-doors, quiet evenings of reading aloud and discussion with Jane, and the early bedtimes agreed with her. Jane speculated that Sarah’s hectic quest of pleasure in London had led her to excesses of behaviour which must have caused her secret shame, and now, for the first time in years, she felt no guilt about herself, which must contribute to her sense of well-being and happiness. Eventually, of course, the quiet of the country would begin to pall, for she was a creature of eagerly adopted enthusiasms, as quickly burnt out. At the moment she was enthusiastic about country life and fresh air.

Just how short-lived were her enthusiasms was demonstrated on the sixth day when a note arrived for her from Lady Barclough, in residence at her magnificent country estate some twenty miles away. She had heard, she wrote, from Lady Montmorency, that Sarah was making a visit at Larkwoods and
begged,
underlined three times to emphasize her desperation, that Sarah and Lady Payton would pack their cases and come to make up a house party. Her female guests were all perfect antidotes and she had “the Beau himself!” coming down from London with a number of friends, all dashing blades who would find pressing engagements elsewhere when they surveyed the ladies, and here she’d sent out cards to hundreds of people for a ball!

“That Caroline Barclough is such a pea goose!” Sarah exclaimed after reading this urgent note aloud to Jane. “Absolutely incapable of planning a proper party. Oh well, what do you say? Shall we go and save her from disaster?”

“Not I, love, not even if the Prince Regent himself were going to be there!” Jane laughed. “Though I hope you will go if you want to.”

“Oh
don’t
say no so quickly!” Sarah begged eagerly, enthusiasm fanned by the promise of the Beau and a ball. “We shall only stay a few days, and my dear, you will set them all on their ears!”

But Jane would not be coaxed. “More like I’ll set them on something else after climbing all over their shoes in a country dance! No, no, my dear, I much prefer to remain at home, but I think you should go. Your bruises barely show and we can easily disguise what’s left, and I can see it will do you a world of good to go into Society again after all these stodgy days here.”

“They were not stodgy! How can you say so, when you’ve seen how I gloried in every moment of them?” Sarah was indignant, and patently sincere. Jane was touched by her declaration, feeling that after all the sacrifice of Clintons pony had not been wasted.

“Just the same, I think the party will do you good, and Lady Barclough will be in your debt forever, so you must go.”

“Well—I should like to, if you’re sure. Of course, Caroline Barclough will be devastated not to have captured you also, she—oh! good heavens! I’ve no ball gown!”

Jane thought for a moment. “I might have something that would do. You are taller, of course, but Dorrie could let down the hem. Come along to my room.”

A reply was sent off to Lady Barclough to inform her that Sarah would happily join her the following day, though Lady Payton must regretfully decline, and the rest of the afternoon was spent on Sarah’s wardrobe. A ball gown of Jane’s was taken from its cover and tried on, and, as predicted, was several inches too short, though fitting very well otherwise.

“And most becoming too,” observed Jane, “much more for you than for me. I have never been partial to that shade of pink, but it is ravishing on you. Aunt Stanier had it made up for me as a gift, hoping it would tempt me to go to the local Assembly last year. Naturally, I did not go, so the gown has never been worn. Now, I think if we remove that ruffle at the neckline and have Dorrie sew on this blond lace you’ll be as fine as five pence. And Dorrie, of course, must go with you.”

“But of course I could not allow you to—”

“You must—you cannot arrive at such a grand affair without a dresser, you’d cut no sort of figure at all.”

Sarah was reluctant, but was finally persuaded. Dorrie was guiltily ecstatic: a dresser to such a fashionable figure as Lady Sarah Montmorency! Why, her status in the servants’ quarters would be dizzyingly exalted.

The following morning they set forth in the grandest Payton carriage, as Jane waved them out of sight. Then she and Clinton collected a packet of bread and butter and fruit from Cook and set off on a long ramble through the Park.

When they returned in mid-afternoon, bedraggled, grass stained, and dazed by the long, sun-drenched hours, they approached the manor by the tree-lined front drive. As they came around the final curve, Clinton gasped and stopped. Jane followed his glance to see, standing at the front steps, a small pony being held by their own groom.

Clinton gave a resounding whoop and broke into a run, and Jane, her heart pounding in a most inexplicable way, followed more slowly. She found herself breathless, though she was not exerting herself in any way.

Clinton reached the pony and then stopped short. He was backing away when a familiar figure came out the front door and down the steps.

“Well, Clinton, I’m glad to see you’ve such a good eye for horse flesh. And you’re right—this is not the London pony. It was not possible to bring him on such a long trip, you see. I found this one in Maidstone. I was sure you would like him.”

Jane came up and Jaspar moved around the pony to take her hand. “I hope you will forgive me for thrusting my company on your unannounced, but I had business in the neighbourhood and could not resist the temptation to ride this way and pay my respects and inquire after Sarah. Then I saw the pony in Maidstone and wondered if the lad might be pining for his riding and—”

“Stop, stop—you’ve convinced me you had every excuse for coming,” Jane laughed. They smiled into each other’s eyes for a long moment, and might have continued to do so for a great deal longer, had not Clinton spoken. They turned to him hastily and somewhat guiltily.

“He is a very fine animal, sir,” Clinton remarked judiciously.

“Indeed, I thought so. Would you like to have a ride now?”

Clinton looked longingly at the lovely beast, but then turned away resolutely. “Thank you very much, sir, but I don’t think I can.”

“But—why not?” Jaspar asked in astonishment.

“I don’t think my pony in London would like it.”

“I should explain, Lord Jaspar, that I had thought to get him a pony when he first came down,” Jane interposed, “but he refused on the grounds that it would be disloyal.”

“Bless my soul,” exclaimed Jaspar, “well, now, young sir, I admire your feelings, but I think I can promise you that it would be all right with—er—by the way, have you decided on a name?”

“Brown Boy,” replied Clinton promptly.

“Very good. Right, then—I think Brown Boy would appreciate it very much if you practiced as much as possible while you are here so that on your return you will be more at ease with him.”

“You really think so, sir?”

“Indeed I do.”

Clinton immediately requested to be put on the pony and the groom began to walk him up the drive. Jaspar turned back to Jane.

“What a lad it is!” he exclaimed enthusiastically.

“Yes, he is. And it was very kind of you to do this. He has been wonderfully manful about it, but very unhappy about leaving London and the beloved pony.”

“Why
did
you leave so suddenly?”

“Oh—it was—just a sudden whim. Sarah and I were talking and—and—I was speaking of Larkwoods and—well—she professed a desire for rest so—we came away.”

He did not allow his skepticism of this garbled explanation to show on his face, but she could tell he was aware that she was being less than forthcoming in her explanation.

“How very unlike her. Must really have been run off her legs to come into the country willingly. I suppose she is—er—resting now?”

Jane laughed. “No. Actually she went off this morning to a house party at Lady Barcloughs, whose having a ball tomorrow night and was terribly pressing. I urged her to go.”

“I see. Well then, I wonder if you could recommend lodgings hereabouts. I had thought to ask you to put me up for a night or so, but since my sister is not here—”

“I’m so sorry. I would happily have welcomed you.”

“We won’t fret about it. I’m sure Crews can find a place for me. I’ll come over to take my dinner with you if I may?”

“Oh—but of course you must,” she agreed warmly, then in a sort of mindless confusion caused by conflicting emotions, turned away and began walking after Clinton. Jaspar silently paced along beside her. After only a moment she turned back again.

“I—I—must speak to Crews about your lodging and then to Cook about dinner. If you would not mind staying with Clinton—?”

“Not in the least,” he answered agreeably, dearly amused by her agitation.

“Thank you—so kind—I really can’t express my gratitude—the pony—so thoughtful of you—” thus babbling incoherently, she made her escape into the house. She ran all the way to her room and throwing off her bonnet began splashing cold water onto her burning cheeks. Then she ran to the cupboards and began pulling out gowns and tossing them on the bed. In the middle of this operation she gasped and ran out of the room in search of Crews.

He assured her that a small inn existed not five miles away, which, while not used to catering to Quality, was a perfectly clean, respectable place, and a footman would be dispatched at once to secure the best room for m’lord. He gave her a look of approval at this request, for he had been more than a little perturbed by the arrival of Lord Montmorency. He liked the young man very well, but he and all the staff were agreed he was Lady Jane’s suitor, and while they looked with favour on his suit, could not think it right that he sleep in the house when no other guest was present.

Jane smiled at his look, understanding its meaning very well, and went away to find Cook, after which she asked Betty to bring hot water for a bath to her room. While she waited for its appearance she threw herself down on her chaise longue, panting as though she’d run a race, her mind a jumble of emotions.

That leap of joy she’d felt through every vein at her first sight of Jaspar emerging from the house, only confirmed what she had known inside to be true but had refused to acknowledge. She had fallen in love with Jaspar Montmorency in spite of her fear of him. That fear had slowly dissipated under the influence of his presence. It had been replaced by a conviction that he had not recognized her after all. As Aunt Stanier had said, she had changed a great deal in the past six years. The fourteen-year-old serving girl had become an elegant young woman of twenty. He had no doubt forgotten all about the little maid in his sister’s rose pink dressing gown—and nothing else, she thought, turning over to bury her burning face in her hands. And there, in the darkness, she remembered again, as she had more often than was good for her peace of mind, the day when he looked at her so meaningfully and spoke of “laughter lighting up her sherry-brown eyes.”

She sat up quickly as Betty tapped and entered, followed by two red cheeked village girls carrying a large oaken pail of steaming water between them. It was carried through into a room beyond which had been fitted out as a bathing room. Betty unbuttoned Jane’s dress and helped her out of it.